


What the world is offering

by 35391291



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 14:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12171018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: The world has gone quiet. It's turned into a place where he can belong.There is time. There is a home. The world finally makes sense.





	What the world is offering

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the prompts for the first day of Mag7Week: Fall and Proposal.

It's been a long time coming. But one day, finally, he stops. He lays down his guns and knives. They are still there, but just out of reach. Slowly, he trades them for something else. The world has gone quiet. It's turned into a place where he can belong. And this is what he has now. This is what he sees.

The wind stops whispering, and at last, there is silence. There is time now, time to watch the leaves fall. There is time to breathe in the air, crisp and sharp. The ground feels safe, and there is time to walk. This is something new. The road ahead used to fade into the dark, but not anymore. It goes forward, it goes on without a set destination, but it is there. And it will lead somewhere eventually. Maybe that is enough.

Most people wouldn't agree, but there is a sort of tenderness in this life. He feels it everywhere, in the hard ground, the rough whiskey and the wide open road. It is rarely easy, but it is shared, and it feels right. There is a home nearby now, but sometimes he needs to sleep under the sky. He needs to remember that it is still there, and to tell his sad companion that there are no owls out here anymore, only stars. And this feels right, too. Maybe they aren't running out of time.

This is something else. This is what the world is offering. And he accepts. Deep down, this is all he knows. He knows the night. He knows the stars and the sky, always there, always blinding black and blue. Like a breath, like a heartbeat. And he knows these patterns by heart. Love, straight-forward and blunt. Silence laced by alcohol, shotgun cigarettes and gentle, calloused hands. They feel like forever. Maybe they mean something.

The fallen leaves will fade. The winter will start, and then it will end. There will be time to wait, and it will all make sense. Maybe the world will rise from the ashes and stand still for a moment. Maybe it will be small and simple. Maybe it will be real. And it will be enough. He has never been particularly good with words, but after all this time, he can almost see the poetry here.


End file.
